cognitive psych. Substitute an empowering emotion for a helpless one.
It worked. She grew hotter and hotter under the collar, thinking about Sil, so rude arrogant compulsive goddamn thoughtless.
Leaving her stuck in the damn car.
When he got back, there’d be hell to pay.
Twenty-five minutes and still no sign of him and the anger began morphing back to nervousness.
Worse than nervousness. Fear, she wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
Time for another strategy. Confront the helplessness with action.
She got out of the car, walked toward the marsh.
Encountered pure darkness and stopped.
Calling his name.
No answer.
Calling louder.
Nothing.
She took a step forward, encountered way too much darkness and stopped-where was Sil’s penlight?-said, “You get your ass over here and take me the hell home and don’t call me until I call you.”
The impact sent her flying.
Hard, vicious fist in her belly, so much force it felt as if the hand were penetrating her innards.
Electric pain sparked through her body, captured her breath.
The second blow caught her on the side of the head and she went down.
A foot kicked the small of her back.
She curled herself tiny, prayed no more punishment would come.
Just as quickly as the attack had begun, it ended.
Footsteps fading into the night.
No sound of a car engine so she lay there thinking, He’s watching. Waited for a long time, before being able to entertain the big question:
Was that Sil?
If not, where
Duboff had been knifed on the pathway. Bloodstains splotched the dirt twelve feet past Selena Bass’s dump site. Care had been taken to brush the surrounding soil all the way to the sidewalk, obscuring footprints. No errant hairs or body fluids that weren’t Duboff’s, no tire tracks along either side of the street.
A deep back wound had pierced Duboff’s left lung, the blow driven with enough force to crack a rib. The follow-up was an ear-to-ear throat slash, with Duboff lying facedown.
“Bad guy probably lifted him by the head,” said Milo. “Reached around and bam.”
Sneak attack in the dark, it needn’t have taken more than seconds. Alma Reynolds had sat in the car for nearly half an hour, ample time to clean the scene.
By calling out Duboff’s name, she’d announced her presence to the killer. Subsequent speech had pinpointed her location and he’d charged her.
Assaulting a potential witness but making no effort to finish her off.
Too intent on making his escape.
He’d expected a one-on-one meeting, but Duboff, ever the contrarian, had brought along Alma Reynolds, put her in mortal danger.
Milo said, “You still all right, ma’am? From your injuries?”
The question offended her.
“As I told you the
“Bastard,” she said, leaving the interview room stiffly “I’m going to miss him incredibly.”
Milo and I moved to his office. I said, “Duboff was a misanthropic crank, but he trusted someone enough to meet in the dark. Alma Reynolds knew he was lying when he said he didn’t know who’d phoned. The lure was solving the murders.”
“Pretty flimsy,” he said. “Why would he fall for that?”
“Dedicated activist shows up the cops and keeps the sacred grounds pristine?”
“Guess so.”
“Being at the marsh after dark didn’t scare him. Alma said he dropped in regularly-including the night Selena was found when he missed the dump by a narrow margin.”
“Maybe too narrow, Alex.”
“He was part of it?”
“Like you said before, two guys would make the job easier. And talk about someone with an intense attachment to the marsh. Plus the guy’s weird. We considered him in the beginning, dropped him off the screen when we couldn’t find any felony record or links to Huck. Maybe that was a big-time goof.”
“He showed up to talk to his confederate?” I said. “Then why take Reynolds along?”
“He thought it would be a brief chat, like he told Reynolds. Got surprised.”
“Be interesting if Huck’s name shows up on any Save the Marsh mailing lists.”
“Be interesting to know where the hell Huck was last night. Which was the point of sitting on my commodious butt watching the shrubbery. No sign of him leaving or entering the house, but that means squat. He coulda made his move before I arrived, returned after I left to take the call on Duboff.”
“When did the call come in?”
“Right after midnight. But that was well past Duboff’s murder. Ol’ Alma wasn’t wearing a watch but she knows they left the restaurant shortly after nine, guesses she got blindsided at ten thirty or so. Which would put Duboff getting gutted at ten or so. She lay there, out of it, for another half hour, finally got up and looked for Duboff, which was stupid, but adrenaline can do all sorts of things to your judgment. After she found him, she ran back out to the street, screaming. No one around to hear, like you said, it’s a ghost town at night. So she got back in Duboff’s car, drove to Pacific Division, and reported the murder. Pacific has her logged in at eleven thirty-two. They put her in a room, took her statement, dispatched a car to the marsh, confirmed the body, and phoned Reed. He was in Solana Beach, called me. I was taking a bladder break, saw the message, called back, cowboyed to the marsh. Leaving Huck plenty of time and opportunity to return home.”
He rubbed his face. “I’m losing it, Alex. Shoulda driven up to the Vander house, leaned on the gate bell. If Huck wasn’t there, maybe someone else was-a maid, whatever, and I’d know.”
“You got called to a murder scene, you went.”
“Guy was dead, what was the rush?” Cursing. “Yeah, it was the logical response. Aka utter lack of creative thinking.”
“Unseemly,” I said.
“What is?”
“Self-flagellation from the man of granite.”
“Right,” he said, “I’m thinking sandstone.”
CHAPTER 19
An expedited search warrant of Silford Duboff’s apartment produced nothing of value. The only surprise was philosophical: dog-eared copies of the complete works of Ayn Rand hidden under Duboff’s mattress, like pornography.
“No knives, guns, garottes, sex toys, weird body fluids, incriminating notes,” said Milo. “No computer, either, but Reynolds says he never had one. Damn fridge had fruits, veggies, whole-grain everything. Rah rah for the healthy lifestyle.”
